Who We Are, Together
by rynogeny
Summary: Post The End in the Beginning S4 finale. In dealing with Booth's confusion, he and Brennan struggle to come to terms with their relationship.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my first Bones fic, and I'd appreciate any feedback, particularly on how I've done with the characters. And as I noted in my profile, those who are waiting for my next Eomer/Lisswyn story...be patient. It's coming, and hopefully won't disappoint. :)

This is post-The End in the Beginning, and was started well before I saw any spoilers for season 5.

* * *

"Who are you?" He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. His mind couldn't immediately put a name to the exhausted woman in front of him, but watching shock replace the relief in her eyes hurt him. The devastation that flickered there, briefly, before clinical detachment hid it was even worse. He might not know her name, but she was still familiar to him, an anchor in a world of confusion, and hurting her was unacceptable.

The dream came back, and his heart jittered as he looked down at her left hand. No ring. She wasn't his wife. Why did that bring such a feeling of disappointment?

"I'll go get the doctor." Her voice trembled before she firmed it, and he made a grab for her arm.

"No. Please. Just give me a moment." He rubbed his face, then looked at her. "I'm just …confused." She was looking at him warily, but had checked her movement toward the door. If he could just figure out what was going on… "What happened?"

"Do you know who _you_ are?"

He frowned. If he said 'no', she'd leave to go get the doctor. How could he be so certain of that when he couldn't remember her name? He felt the bandages on his head, and forcing back fear, found the answer she was looking for. "I'm Seeley Booth. Now, tell me what happened. Whatever it is, I'd rather hear it from you than a doctor."

"You don't know who I am."

"No, but I _know_ you. I don't know how." It made no sense, but was still true.

She studied him for a long moment, and the look of intense concentration was one he'd seen on her face many times – he knew that, too. Then she nodded. "Very well, but then I'm going to notify the doctor that you're awake and confused."

She shifted, and he looked down, discovered he was still clutching her arm. Instead of letting go, he slid his hand down, entwined his fingers with hers. It felt …right. Pleased that she wasn't pulling away, he looked back at her expectantly.

"You're an FBI agent."

She paused, as if to let him absorb that, and he frowned. "Not a nightclub owner?"

Plainly startled, she glanced over at the other side of the room. It took him a moment to realize she'd been looking at her laptop, not where she'd find the doctors. "No, you don't own a nightclub."

"An FBI agent?" It sounded …right, somehow. More so than his identity in the dream, actually, though the dream had felt so real, it still hovered on the edges of his mind. But if he didn't own a nightclub, and she wasn't his wife, who was she? And why was he so certain he knew her nearly as well as if she _were_ his wife? Then a new thought came, and with his free hand, he reached up to touch the bandages. "Was I shot?"

A shadow came into her eyes, and she looked down, to where his chest was covered by the hospital gown. "No. No, you weren't shot." He would swear he could almost see her mentally adding 'this time' to the answer.

The shadow was gone when she looked up again and her voice was once more brisk and professional, even as her thumb rubbed across his knuckles. "You had a cerebellar pilocytic astrocytoma." She hesitated, then amended, "…brain tumor."

"A brain tumor?" His mouth went dry, and he fought to keep the fear from showing on his face.

"Benign. You came through the surgery quite well, but had a bad reaction to the anesthesia. You've been in a coma for four days." Her voice broke at the end, and he looked up, his own response insignificant in the face of her distress.

He tightened his fingers around hers, unsure what to say to comfort her. Asking her identity wouldn't do it. But somehow, in the same way he knew so much else, he knew honesty was important to her. "What is your name?"

She took a breath. "I'm Dr. Temperance Br-"

"Brennan," he finished.

At her startled look, he shook his head. "I had a dream. You were Brennan."

An uneasy expression on her face, she glanced toward at the laptop again. "That's why you asked about the nightclub? You had a dream? And I was in it?"

"Yes." He wasn't quite willing to tell her what her role had been. "Who are you in real life?"

"Your partner."

"You're not an agent." Another of those things he knew without having memories to back up.

"No. I'm a forensic anthropologist. I work out of the Jeffersonian. I consult for the FBI."

"But you're still my partner."

"Yes."

"We're more than partners." He knew it was true, felt it with everything he was, even with no memories to back it up. Even so, he watched her closely to see how she'd respond.

She seemed to struggle for words for a moment, and then simply nodded.

Did that mean she _couldn't_ put a name to what they were to one another, or _wouldn't_ put a name to it?

Suddenly exhausted, he relaxed against the pillow. She tugged on her hand, probably once more planning to go for the doctor, when a new thought struck him with some urgency. Tightening his fingers around hers again, he once more caught her gaze. "I have a son. Where is he?"


	2. Chapter 2

"What is taking the doctor so long?" Impatient to get back to Booth, Brennan paced from one end of the waiting room to the other, refusing to look at the worried and sympathetic faces of those around her. Booth had told her once that there was more than one kind of family. She'd not understood then that included people who know you too well.

In addition to Cam, Angela, Hodgins, and Sweets, Rebecca was there. She'd made no apologies for the time she'd spent with them at the hospital, beyond the simple statement, 'he's the father of my son.'

Brennan hadn't wanted to leave Booth, not once she'd understood that however confused he was, he _knew _her, but the doctor – the same one who had no qualms about her watching the actual surgery – had banished her from the room while he conducted his exam.

"Sweetie," Angela murmured, and Brennan turned to see that same doctor approaching them.

He didn't delay. He looked around, as if cataloging their identities, before turning toward her. "It is not typical amnesia, in the sense of what you might think of as a blank slate. Rather, the memories are there – he just can't tap completely into them. He knows things, about himself and others, without knowing _why_ he knows them. He remembers his son, remembers his personality, remembers things about him, without remembering specific events in the child's life that would explain that knowledge. He doesn't remember the _events_ that explain the things he knows."

Relief passed over Rebecca's face. "Can I bring Parker to see him, then?"

The doctor turned to her, looked thoughtful. "Yes, but caution him that his father may be confused about the details. You might also prepare him for the sight of the bandages."

He turned back to Brennan. "He has very strong feelings for you." His next glance took in everyone else. "I suspect he'll 'know' all of you, but again, without having the memories to back up what he knows to be true."

"What should we do, then?" Cam asked.

"Talk to him. Maybe not tonight, as he should sleep when he is so inclined, but tomorrow…tell him who you are, what your shared stories are. Be who you really are around him. The memories will come back. This type of confusion isn't uncommon with such patients, and it doesn't last long."

Rebecca wasn't the only one exhibiting signs of relief. Cam and Sweets both approached the doctor with additional questions, no doubt reflective of Cam's medical degree and Sweets' psychology background. Later, she'd want to know what was said, would even want Sweets' take on the not-really-amnesia. But right now, all she wanted was to rejoin the man down the hall, to reassure herself that he really was on the mend. Or getting there. It had been a long four days of fearing he'd never wake at all.

He appeared to be asleep when she slipped into the room, and she stifled the disappointment. Sleep was good. She knew that. But damn it, she wanted to talk to him again. She wanted him to know her. Completely. She wanted to know that he remembered _them. _Their partnership. Their friendship. Their whatever-it-was.

Memory of how he'd taken her hand came back, and she rubbed her fingers with her thumb, recalled the things he'd known. But he'd only, sort of, known her as Brennan. Not Bones. It was stupid to be upset by that.

Turning, she saw her laptop still in the same place she'd left it earlier, and thought of his dream, and the silly, romantic story she'd written to occupy herself over the past days. Foolishness. She needed to get the proposal for her next book to her agent, not come up with some ridiculous story of a nightclub named The Lab.

Still, it was odd that Booth had apparently dreamed something similar. She frowned. Had she spoken the story aloud while she was writing it? She had no memory of doing so, but it was the only explanation.

Heat rose in her cheeks as she remembered the sex scene. Annoyed, and now glad he was asleep, she rubbed her face. The sex itself didn't bother her. But the fact that the characters had rather obviously been the two of them, and she'd had them _married _after all her negative comments about the antiquated custom of marriage…that made her uncomfortable. But surely he must know she found him attractive.

"You look so tired, I want to tell you to go home and get some rest. But I think I'll sleep better if you're here."

So startled by the fact that he'd obviously been awake and watching her, she nearly yelped at the quiet voice. Turning to him, she found his eyes on her, the same hopeful smile on his face he'd been wearing when she came to him right before the surgery. No, she wouldn't leave him alone.

Walking over, she once more took his hand, unsurprised by the quick and steady strength of it as he quickly clasped hers. "How are you? Are you remembering more?" _Do you remember that you always call me 'Bones'?v_

He shook his head. "I know things without remembering why I know them."

It was self-indulgent and foolish, but she had to ask. "What do you know about me?"

He studied her for a moment, his thumb once more rubbing across her knuckles. "I know you're compassionate, but not particularly good with people."

For as long as she could remember, the first word people had used to describe her had been 'genius.' She'd been proud of that – but not nearly so much as she was now, when it wasn't the first thing he came up with. She swallowed against the emotion that climbed into her throat, then considered the last phrase, and grimaced. If he hadn't added that, she might have thought he was making it all up. She hated that he was right.

"What else?"

Frowning, he focused on their linked hands for a long moment, and then looked up at back at her, a pleased look on his face. "You don't like pie!"

She had to smile at the delighted expression on his face. "I don't like cooked fruit," she corrected. "What else?" Her need to know how he saw her when he couldn't actually remember the details felt a bit desperate, but she couldn't stop herself from asking the question.

He was still smiling at her, the charm smile. It made it difficult to breathe, somehow.

"Daffodils are your favorite flower." The smile faded a little. "Have I ever given you daffodils?"

She shook her head.

"I should have."

"We're partners." It came out rote, the habitual explanation of their relationship.

"Partners can give each other flowers."

At a loss, she shook her head again. "It's not like that."

"I'd do anything for you." His voice was quiet.

He was right, but how should she respond to him? "That's more about you than me," she finally said.

"And you'd do anything for me, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

Looking pleased with her simple answer, he shifted and leaned back against the pillows. She'd not realized he'd been sitting up until he relaxed.

"Tell me about your dream." Where had that question even come from? She'd blurted it out without even thinking about it. Only now that it was out there, between them, did she realize how important the answer was to her.

His expression turned thoughtful again. He was still holding her hand, occasionally stroking her knuckles with his thumb. "You know how in some dreams, you know you're dreaming? This wasn't like that. It felt so real…" his voice drifted off. "There was a nightclub named 'The Lab.' Odd name for a club," he murmured. "There was a murder, and all these people who worked for us thought I committed it and were trying to protect me."

Was he even aware of the 'us' in his last sentence? Brennan swallowed. It was the story as she'd written it. But surely she'd remember doing so if she had really read the whole thing aloud to him? Even guessing what the answer would be, she wanted to ask what her role had been. More than that, she wanted to know how he felt about the role she'd played. But she couldn't quite bring herself to ask. "Do you remember the others? The people who worked for you?"

He frowned. "There was a bouncer named Wendell and a bartender named Sweets. What kind of name is that for a bartender?"

"In real life, he's a psychologist, if it helps," she said, her tone dry.

"They're real? I know these people? All of them? I thought you were just a fluke, since you were here in the room with me and we're, um, partnersand, uh..." his voice faded and a slight flush rode his cheekbones.

Wondering if he was thinking about the way she'd started the story, she cleared her throat. "They're all real." She was going to feel very silly if it ever came out that the reason he'd dreamed as he had was because she'd written it using the names of friends and family for characters, particularly since she'd always insisted that the characters in her books weren't based on real people. She nearly winced.

"Tell me the names of the others."

"In your dream?"

"That we work with, and what they do."

"Very well." She considered, and then said, "Camille Saroyan is Head of Forensics at the Jeffersonian and a pathologist, the former chief coroner of New York."

"Cam." He was frowning.

"Yes."

"In my dream, she was a detective."

Wishing she'd left at least a few of their co-workers out of the story, she managed a neutral tone. "Was she?"

"Yes." He was still frowning. "Cam," he said the name again, more slowly.

"You've known one another for fifteen years. And been intimate in the past."

His face cleared a little, and Brennan wondered if he'd been remembering something, recalling a specific memory. She would not allow herself to feel jealous that he remembered Cam and not her. She would not.

"Not now?"

"No. Not for several years."

"She's not my son's mother."

More relieved than she'd acknowledge, even to herself, that he didn't seem to have actual memories of Cam, either, she shook her head. "Parker's mother is Rebecca. I think she'll be in to see you tomorrow."

"What's my relationship with her?"

"I believe you consider yourselves friends now, though that wasn't always the case."

The frown was back.

Knowing what was bothering him, she said, "You wanted to marry her. She refused."

"I loved her."

The statement made her decidedly uncomfortable. She chose not to analyze why. "I believe so. I'm not sure why she didn't marry you. Based on the amount of time she's spent here this week, she appears to have a great deal of affection for you."

"Just what a guy wants," he muttered. "Affection from the woman he loves." At her startled look, he shook his head. "Never mind. Give me some more names."

"Of people we work with?"

At his nod, she said, "Well, there's Angela Montenegro. She's an artist and software expert--"

"Who is also your best friend, and very loyal to you," he interrupted.

How could he know that without specific memories? "Yes," she said simply. Though she wondered, sometimes, about the 'best friend' designation. Angela was very important to her, but if the artist was her best friend, what role did that leave the man in front of her? Better not to ponder that, probably.

"Cam, Angela, you. Apart from the shrink with the odd name, do we work with any guys?"

Refusing to think of Zach, she nodded. "There's Jack Hodgins—"

"The bug and slime guy!" He grinned, pleased with himself.

She smiled at his pleasure. "Yes. Do you remember anything about him?"

The smile faded. "No. Nothing detailed. He's a good man, though, isn't he?"

Memories of a dark car tried to push into her mind, and she shoved them back. "Yes. He's a very good man. He's been here most of the week, as well."

He sighed and stretched. "It's good, I guess, that I know them, but I still don't _remember_ them. Let's try something else."

"You should probably sleep."

He shook his head. "I'm not ready to return to the land of Nod. Let's talk about some of our cases." His gaze turned thoughtful. "So I'm with the Bureau, and you're a forensic anthropologist, and we're partners? How does that work, exactly?"

"I and others in the lab examine the bodies for clues and evidence, and--"

"—I do the field work?"

"You and I do the field work," she said a bit primly.

He frowned. "You go into the field? Why?"

For a moment, she didn't know how to respond. It had been a long time since they'd first had this argument. Finally, she said simply, "I wanted to experience field work, so I blackmailed you into letting me join you."

To her relief, he laughed. 'Really? Blackmail?"

"I told you I'd only help if I were allowed to go into the field."

He was still grinning at her. "Good for you. So how long have we worked together?"

"Four years."

The smile faded and he dropped his head against the pillow again. "Four years. That's a lot of memories I should have."

"You still have them. You're just not accessing them yet."

"Right. So tell me about some of our cases. If you're looking at bodies for evidence, we must be homicide, right?"

"Yes." Thoughtful, she stared down at their fingers, still entwined. He was on the right track – the doctor had said to share memories with him. But where to start? Would a case with more personal ramifications have a greater chance of triggering memories than a more ordinary one? "As to a specific case…there was the Gravedigger," she finally said quietly, memories of the dark car now tangling with a frantic helicopter ride.

"The Gravedigger. Only serial killers are usually given that kind of nickname."

"She kidnapped her victims for ransom and buried them alive. If the ransom was paid, she'd provide the GPS coordinates of where the victim was. There was no negotiation."

"She? Serial killers aren't usually women."

"I know."

"So does the fact that we know it was a woman mean we caught her?"

"Yes, but…"

"But?"

"Not at first. She kidnapped me and Hodgins and buried us in a car." She was proud of how steady her voice was, with no indication of how often she still awoke shaking, trapped in that terrifying darkness.

He was squeezing her fingers so hard it was nearly painful. "Booth?"

"The quarry. We found you in a quarry. It was…" he paused, seemed to steady himself. "It was long past when your air should have run out. It took so long to get to the damn quarry…" his voice faded.

Stunned, she stared at him. "You remember."

Grimly, he nodded. "You had a cell phone and managed to send a text of your location in squint code. Even then, we'd never have found you in time if you hadn't blown the airbags."

Realizing that she wasn't the only one who could get lost in memories of that day, she brought her other hand up, laid it over their clasped fingers. "Booth, you're _remembering._" She wished the first memory to come back could have been something pleasant. Would Rebecca have been able to nudge forward memories of the day Parker was born?

It was his turn to look startled. "You're right. I remember that entire day."

"Do you remember anything else?"

"No, not really." The puzzled frown was back. "We didn't catch the Gravedigger, though, did we?"

"Not then, no. Do you remember anything else? A ship?"

His eyes went slightly unfocused as he concentrated, and she knew when the memory of his own kidnapping came back to him. "Teddy."

She nodded somewhat cautiously. Was it good or bad that he was remembering one of the delusions caused by the tumor?

"I named Parker after him," he murmured. He frowned again. "But Teddy's dead. Not my fault," he said so softly she nearly missed it. With a jerk, he pulled his hand away from her, rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Damn it. Why do I associate the Gravedigger and a ship with someone who I know died a long time ago?"

Surprised it had taken so long for frustration to erupt, she said, "The Gravedigger kidnapped you and stranded you on an old Navy ship that was about to be sunk and turned into a reef. While there, you…saw the ghost of Corporal Parker."

"I saw his ghost?"

"Most likely another manifestation of the brain tumor."

"There were others?"

"Yes." Knowing she shouldn't start this, she said, "Although…"

"What?"

"Ghosts don't exist." She said it firmly.

"Not so helpful, that."

"They don't. There is no irrefutable, scientific evidence to support such appearances." She didn't know why she was telling him this.

"I hear a 'but.'"

"You managed things on the ship, trying to free yourself, that you shouldn't have been able to do without some assistance."

"Oh. So you're saying maybe Teddy was real?"

"I'm saying there are things we don't understand about your experience on the ship. Ghosts don't exist."

He smiled, as if suddenly understanding something, and took her hand again. She'd not realized how much she'd missed his touch until it was back. "You came to get me in the helicopter – I remember that. How did you know where I was?"

"Effort from a lot people, including your brother."

"Jared." His expression went from thoughtful to another frown of concentration. "He lost his career over it…no, that can't be right," he muttered.

"Actually, it is. He came through for you." _Finally, _she added to herself.

"Yeah?" His smile quickly turned to concern. "He's okay, though?"

"Based on an email you received the day before your surgery, he's in India, enjoying himself. He doesn't know about your surgery, on your orders." Though she'd considered overruling him on that after he'd slipped into the coma. Ultimately, she'd not done so because she'd _had_ to believe he'd wake up at any moment, irrational as the thought had been.

He sighed and leaned back again. "He wanted me to go with him to India."

"You remember that?"

"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "I considered it, for a moment or two." Then he sighed. "I guess I'd hoped that having one memory come back would trigger them all. But that's not the case."

"But you are remembering as we talk. That's a very positive development."

He nodded, and yawned. "I should sleep." He hesitated. "And you should go home and do the same."

"I'm fine." And it would be difficult to leave when he was holding her hand so tightly.

He wanted to argue – she could see it in his eyes. But even as she had the thought, his eyelids drifted down.

She stood next to him for a long time, just watching. His face was thin, the angles sharper than normal, and there were shadows under his eyes. But on the whole, he looked like himself. And with his memories coming back…relief, for the first time since she had realized he was hallucinating in the interview room, shuddered through her. He was going to recover. Eventually, he'd even remember she was Bones. He would.

Barely aware of what she was doing, she reached out with her hand – the one not tangled with his – and touched his cheek. Where had this need to touch him come from? A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she shook her head in confusion. Sleep. He'd been right that she needed to sleep as well. So many nights of worry…her body was finally rebelling at the lack of rest.

Gently pulling away from him, she dragged the chair closer to his bed. As she settled into it, she saw he was shifting restlessly in his sleep, the hand she'd been holding moving back and forth across the sheet, searching.

Easing the side of the bed down, she leaned forward, once again entwined her fingers with his. Then resting her head on the mattress, slept. And dreamed.

She was seldom aware of dreaming even after the fact and certainly not while it was happening. And yet she recognized the dream for what it was even as it began, with the woman named Brennan slipping into the bedroom while the woman called Bones watched...

"_Do you love me?"_

"_Yeah. Do you want me to prove it to you?"_

_While the lovers loved, she who watched ached to answer his question. Yes. Oh, please, yes. She'd been without love for nearly half her life, had finally convinced herself that it was nothing more than biology. And then he'd come, with his aggravating nickname and insistence that he'd never betray her. That he would keep his promises. And he had. He'd kept them all, and done so much more._

_He'd helped her see the love she shared with her team, had taught her to see family wherever it existed. And then he'd helped restore her biological family to her. She was honest enough to know that without him, without his nagging, she might well have walked away from both her father and her brother._

_He'd told her once of the difference between sex and making love. She'd agreed with him, unwilling to admit that she'd never experienced that difference for herself. Not even with Sully, with whom she'd perhaps come closest. Now, watching the couple love, as she'd written it, no less, she yearned. _

_And wept, because there was a Line._


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't know if it was the wetness on his arm or the noises of distress that woke him. The latter was soft, just occasional whimpers, but it broke his heart. Her cheek was resting on their tangled hands, her other hand resting lightly against his arm, as if she needed yet more contact.

It had to be the most uncomfortable position imaginable for sleeping, and a look at the clock told him she'd been that way for hours – the doctors would be making rounds soon. Slipping his hand out from hers, he threaded it through her hair and began to massage just above her neck. "Bones," he said quietly. Not Brennan, though that was her legal name. But 'Bones.' His Bones.

She whimpered again, a sound bordering on despair, and he slid his hand around, wiped the tears, cupped her cheek. "Bones," he repeated, a little louder.

This time, her eyes opened. Confused, wounded, hopeful. Had he caused all those things?

"You called me 'Bones.'" She stopped, cleared her throat, slowly sat up, and pulled away from his hand. "Do you remember m-more?"

He'd bet nearly anything that she'd been about to ask, 'do you remember _me_.' Regretting the loss of the soft skin of her cheek, he once more took her hand. "I've always called you that. At first it was just to tease you, but later…"

"Later…what?"

"Later it was a nickname, a show of affection." It came out more gruffly than he'd intended, but regardless, it brought a shy smile, quickly hidden behind her hair, in response.

At a loss as to what to say or do next, he went for the practical. "I don't remember everything yet. And some of it's just images, no real details. I remember the diner, and ice skating with you. I remember zero-G and something about a circus." There was more –a kiss under mistletoe, a vague memory he was pretty sure was of him arresting her father, and her with Sully. But what he didn't remember was exactly how much more than partners they were, and until he did, he didn't want to broach those things. And hadn't Sully been his friend?

Before he could pursue that line of thought, there was movement at the door as Dr. Jurzik came in. The doctor looked thoughtfully at both him and Brennan, and then turned to him. "Good morning, Agent Booth. How are you this morning?"

Unsure what the man was looking for, he shrugged. "I'm starting to remember."

"Are you? That's very good. I expect as your friends come in later, more memories will return. Are you in any pain?"

He reached up, touched the bandages, then shook his head. "No."

"Good." Jurzik glanced at Bones, to include her in the conversation, and then looked back at him. "I've ordered some post-op tests for you this morning – standard, just to see how things are looking. If everything is as it should be at this point, and if your memories continue to return, I may release you this afterno—"

"Yes!" He couldn't stop the grin from spreading over his face. He really hated hospitals.

The surgeon gave him a mild look, and continued, "…contingent upon you having someone you can stay with, or who will stay with you, for a minimum of 72 hours. We don't want neurosurgery patients alone until we're certain all chance of seizures is past." He turned to Bones. "I assume that's you – that you'll be with him?"

It was a good thing Jurzik was asking her directly. Given how little Booth understood about their 'partnership,' he had no idea if the doctor's assumption was a safe one or not, though he found himself rather desperately hoping it was. Far more interested in the answer than the doctor was, he turned to watch her.

Something flickered in her eyes for just a moment but her nod was immediate. "Yes. Perhaps it would be better for him to be in his own place rather than mine? Wouldn't that assist with the return of memories?"

"Probably, though it depends on how much time he's spent in your residence." Jurzik turned back to him. "Someone will be coming by in a few minutes to take you down for the tests. We're also going to get you up out of that bed and walking – we need to see how your coordination is, as well as your stamina after being prone for so many days."

Glancing at Bones, Jurzik said, "I'll be back after lunch to go over the results of the tests. We'll make a final assessment of his readiness for discharge at that point. My recommendation, then, Dr. Brennan, would be for you to go home now and get some rest while we're performing the tests. You've not left the hospital for days," he ended gently.

She hadn't? Really? Fascinated, Booth stared at his partner, who seemed very nearly flustered, and wouldn't look at him. "It was important for someone to be here," she said. "But yes, I'll go…check on things." Finally glancing at him, she picked up her handbag and laptop, and hurried from the room.

A flustered Bones. Even without all his memories, he knew he'd not seen that very often. Pleased, he grinned to himself before turning back to the doctor.

Being out of the hospital felt as good as he'd expected it to. Everything else was lousy. He was weaker than he'd expected to be. He didn't like that while the roads around him were familiar, he couldn't quite figure out where he was. And he hated not being the one driving, particularly since the woman at his side seemed to be taking a perverse amusement in the fact that she was doing so.

Mostly, he hated that he still didn't understand what his relationship with Bones was. She'd agreed with his statement about their being more than partners. But he still didn't know how much more, or what the exact nature of their …whatever-it-was was.

She'd stayed with him at the hospital, was going to stay with him at his place for the next few days. Furthermore, not one of the people who'd paraded through his hospital room after his tests earlier, from their colleagues to Rebecca, had thought that odd or unusual. In fact, Sweets had appeared to relish in it.

Scowling, he stared at the building in front of them as they pulled into a parking space. "This isn't my place. It's yours."

Apparently misunderstanding his scowl, her expression was one of remorse when she responded. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm sure you're exhausted, but I just need to run up and get a few things. I'll be as fast as I can."

"It's not a problem – I just thought you were here this morning, while I was having the tests done."

She shook her head. "I had things I had to finish up at the lab."

Completely unsurprised, he nodded, and then moved to open his door.

"You don't need to come up. It will only take me a moment." Her voice was anxious, and annoyed him.

"I'm fine, Bones. I'm not completely doddering just because I had brain surgery. I want to see your place, see what I remember. I've been here before, haven't I?"

"Of course."

"Then let's go." He pushed open his door and got out, hoping she wouldn't notice the way he leaned on the door for a moment to steady himself. Jurzik had said some weakness was to be expected, and would lessen as he resumed normal activities. He fully intended to resume everything which could be resumed.

Inside, she headed for the elevator, and he scowled again, knowing full well that she normally took the stairs. He considered taking the stairs himself, anyway, just to make a point, and then felt his left leg wobble. Deeply unsettled, he turned and followed her into the elevator, then leaned against the wall, hoping she'd not notice.

But of course she did. "Booth, there's no shame in experiencing physical weakness. Not only have you been in a coma, and in a prone position for several days, there's still a possibility that the surgery will affect your large motor skills at least on a temporary basis."

He really didn't want to discuss it. Really, truly, didn't. "I'm fine, Bones." He cast about for something else to say, something which would distract her. It was damned difficult to do so when he still didn't have all his memories. "What were you working on at the lab?" Yeah, that sounded pretty desperate, actually.

But it worked. "I was replying to some correspondence and finishing the report on the last case we worked on."

So she could take several more days off. He heard the unspoken words, and remembering the comment the doctor had made about her not having left the hospital, guilt pricked him. "Listen, Bones, if you need to go to work…"

"I'm fine, Booth. There is nothing urgent on my desk at the moment. In fact, I thought I could work on the proposal for my next novel while you're recuperating."

Relieved that he wasn't keeping her from work, he grinned. "Will I be in this one much?"

Somewhat primly, she said, "As I've told you before, Andy is not based on you."

Before he could come up with a response, her expression changed, and as she glanced away from him, he'd swear she was blushing. Bones, blushing? Perhaps Andy was beginning to resemble him, after all. He grinned at the thought, but the door pinged, announcing their arrival at her floor before he could pursue it further. Promising himself to look into it later, he followed her down the hall.

He stepped into her apartment behind her, wondering how familiar it would be. The answer was immediate: very. Images rushed at him, of meals, work, teasing…and a pool of blood, with Bones clinging to him, terrified. Not Russ. It hadn't been Russ, after all. His relief had been nearly as great as hers – he liked her brother, liked him a great deal.

But he had to admit to not minding the way she'd turned to him for comfort.

Then his eyes settled on her balcony, and an even uglier memory came back. Epps. The absolute fear of knowing the serial killer had been with Parker, had talked with him, settled into his stomach, and then grew quickly into remembered fury. Barely aware of her, he followed the path he had that night, leaned against the railing and stared down.

"I didn't kill him."

"No."

"But I didn't save him."

"He didn't want you to save him."

"I'm not sorry he's gone." It felt good to say the words.

"Neither am I."

He sighed, and turned to lean against the balcony, watching her. Idly, he wondered why Epps seemed to trigger a memory of his having shot a clown, but decided not to pursue it. Coping with the accompanying emotions to the surge of memories was exhausting. He'd rather just contemplate his relationship with his 'partner' – the one who was even now regarding him with concern. "I'm fine, Bones. Go ahead and get your stuff together."

She stared at him for a full ten seconds before nodding and turning back to her bedroom. Resisting the urge to follow her and see what her bedroom looked like – had he ever been in there? – he settled on the sofa, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Everyone had just assumed she'd watch over him while he recuperated. He thought again of the friends he'd seen that morning – the squint squad, Rebecca…he'd not seen one startled look from any of them when he told them he was going home with her. Not one. So their relationship was deep enough, established enough for that.

He had thousands of images of her in his head, but none were of them making love. So they weren't lovers, despite what he knew was a shared attraction, because he'd remember if they were. He was certain of that. He did remember kissing her beneath mistletoe, but the emotion associated with that was silliness and of being flustered rather than simple passion and tenderness – someone had been watching them.

Intimate. Even knowing they'd never taken things to the level of lovers, what they had felt intimate to him. More images bombarded his mind, of late night conversations, of him in a car with Hodgins racing to save her, of her turning to him in grief and fear. She trusted him, and he thought it was in a way she'd not easily trusted before. Then what he recognized was a more recent memory came back, of her saying, 'there's something wrong. Trust me, Booth. Trust me' and he knew the trust went both ways. He had trusted her. Did trust her. Absolutely.

But if the intimacy was there, and the trust, and the attraction – he _knew_ he wasn't alone in that, he'd caught how she watched him – then why weren't they lovers? Why weren't they together the way they'd been in his dream?

It continued to bother him all the way to his apartment, the one thing in his life which still felt out of kilter. He knew he didn't have all his memories, but felt like he had enough of them to function – after all, no one remembered all the details of life, anyway. But he needed to understand what he was to Temperance Brennan. Enough had come back that he already knew what she was to him. _Bones. My Bones. My heart… _

Stifling a sigh, he pushed open the door of her car and exited. Maybe more of it would come back to him when he saw his place. But looking at her as she rounded the car to join him, anxiety moved in. Maybe the reason the memories he was looking for weren't coming back was because they didn't exist. Maybe she trusted him, cared for him, but didn't love him.

The thought depressed him, and he hid it as they entered the building, moving quietly to the door of his apartment. As he'd expected, more memories were coming back, images really. But still nothing which would tell him what he most wanted to know – that she loved him the way he knew he loved her.

He unlocked the door and walked into the living area. Yeah, it felt like home. It felt like he knew who he was, here. Or nearly.

"Booth?" Her voice was a bit hesitant. "Are you remembering more?"

He turned to her, wondering how she would respond if he replied, _I'm remembering everything except how I survive when I love you and you don't love me._

She looked so vulnerable standing there, and he suddenly recalled the wounded look she'd worn when he first awoke from the coma and asked her who she was. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions after all, in assuming his feelings were one sided.

It was time to know. To understand. Making a decision, he said, "I remember a lot. Most things, maybe. I know Parker. The squints. I know who I am. I know who you are." He hesitated before finishing. "But I don't know who _we _are, together."

Her eyes widened, and he wondered if she'd try to fob him off with the 'we're partners' thing.

She looked away, and though they weren't standing all that near one another, took a step back. His mind registered it as a protective move, even as he said, "I know what it seems our relationship should be, given what I'm feeling. But I don't have any memories to back that up. I need to know, Temperance."

She swallowed, and finally met his eyes. "There's a line. You said that people who work in high risk situations…there's a line, and it's dangerous to cross."

More images slammed into him. Cam. Epps. He closed his eyes against the memory of the terror of that day, and the guilt. And the knowledge that what he'd felt for Cam was a fraction of what he felt for the woman across from him. She was still standing there, looking vulnerable in a way he understood few people ever saw, and suddenly he knew what to say.

"I remember," he said quietly, and watched the relief come into her eyes, followed by wariness when he continued speaking. "What I didn't know the day I told you that is that there's more to that line than just making love, more than just affection. There's heart, and need, and…" in spite of himself, his voice faltered for a moment. But something had changed in her eyes, something he would almost label hope. It gave him courage. "I crossed the line a long time ago, Bones – but I need to know if I'm alone in that."

She swallowed hard and looked away from him, a blush tinting her cheeks. He could see the pulse beating wildly in her throat, but when she answered him, her voice was steady. "Do you remember your dream? The one you were having right before you woke up in the hospital?"

Confused and rather desperately hoping she wasn't changing the subject, he nodded.

"I wrote it."

She looked away as she spoke the words, and his confusion increased, her embarrassment not helping. "What?"

"While you were in the coma, I tried to write, to work on my novel. Instead, this story spilled out, of me and you, and a nightclub, and we were," she hesitated, her blush deepening as she looked anywhere but at him. "We were together." Taking a deep breath, she finally met his eyes. "I don't remember doing so, but can only figure I must have read it aloud to you. The doctors did tell me to talk to you, that the first of the senses to return for a comatose patient is hearing and that you'd respond to—"

She was babbling, and tenderness welled up inside him. Tenderness, and hope, and a love that made his heart ache. Continuing to rattle off information about the care of comatose patients, she was still watching him, and now he thought he knew the meaning of the expression 'with her heart in her eyes.'

"Bones," he said softly, interrupting her rambling. "Do you love me?"

It took her a moment to understand the reference, and then the deer-in-the-headlights look faded, replaced by the confidant woman he knew. With a slight smile, she walked over to him, slid her arms up around his neck. "Yeah," the casual word seemed strange, coming out of her mouth. But she stuck to their script. "Do you want me to prove it to you?"

Before he could answer, before he could even decide whether or not to continue the reversed role play from the story, she pulled his head down and kissed him. As he wrapped his arms around her and allowed his tongue to tangle with hers, he decided it no longer mattered if he had all of his important memories.

They were making new ones.


End file.
